"salome" poems
Come in and enjoy the Night-Light Hotel
Where Pillows and Perfumes meet and relax
And Therapy takes either Bond or Belle
And Goldfish blow this Friday's Bubbly Sax
Here upon registry your Token awaits
The Flannel up-hook which you strip and wear
Then wait for your turn as your Number rebates
A little whilst knowing your Musk reeks there
I for one made this Malicious Decide
And tempt my ****** to swallow this Treat:
Upper-Lower Left; Upper-Lower Right
Then descend into Base - Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!
Stud or Salome, let Conscience give choose
But trust me to say I am a Man too.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
'Herodiade's flea
Was named sweet Amanda,
She danced like a lady
From here to Uganda.
Oh, what a dance was there!
Long-haired, the candle
Salome-like tossed her hair
To a dance tune by Handel.' . . .
Dance they still? Then came
Courtier Death,
Blew out the candle flame
With civet breath.
6.4k
Awake to your heart beating
in your stomach, in your thoughts, in your skin,
wildly
Awake to your fingers clasping your
own chin
As what sounds like another man
but isn't, he's you
screams aloud words you can't make out
Awake to your chest in a cold sweat
Only then,
Awake and
tell me
about your
so called
nightmares
- salome albrecht
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.
2.6k
Tap, tap, and tap faster now
to the beat she’d exclaim
Her fingers would dance over black and white keys
as her expression screamed passionate
She held herself up with ease, dressed in love
Poise could very well be her middle name
Patience and respect dangled, I imagined
from her tousled brown hair
Laughter to be thankful for in her piano lesson
Clap, clap, and clap faster now
to the beat she’d exclaim
- salome albrecht
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Look down
From on high
Lord knows
How bleeds your sharp knife
Incisor
My pack fights tooth and nail
Our brood suckles hard
Gets our due from each ****
Renewable Romulus and Remus
Makes Mother happy
Her pups engaged
Zeus burst his brain making you
Jupiter’s irrational exuberance
Pumped up
Hear me now
Believe me later
We guttersnipes must contend
With your white largesse
**** on us trickler
At least give us jobs
Blown handy our daily ****
Rather eat ***
Off a silver platter
Served by Salome
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks
I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me
Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper
Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.
I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or arse-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.
© M.L.Emmett
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
She that begs a little boon
(Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Little gets--and nothing, soon.
(No, no, no! No, no, no!)
She that calls for costly things
Priceless finds her offerings--
What's impossible to kings?
(Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Kings are shaped as other men.
(Step and turn! Step and turn!)
Ask what none may ask again.
(Will you learn? Will you learn?)
Lovers whine, and kisses pall,
Jewels tarnish, kingdoms fall--
Death's the rarest prize of all!
(Step and turn! Step and turn!)
Veils are woven to be dropped.
(One, two, three! One, two, three!)
Aging eyes are slowest stopped.
(Quietly! Quietly!)
She whose body's young and cool
Has no need of dancing-school--
Scratch a king and find a fool!
(One, two, three! One, two, three!)
1.5k
alessandro
botticelli said
let there be venus
(said
let there be you.)
you
running your hands down your own curves
blind;
the mirrors are all broken here.
it doesn’t matter
if you want this.
i want this
dotted i
(crossed t)
wants this
****
is this, for instance.
a pear:
bruised
muscled like
holy breaststhighs
completely inmoving
(outmoving)
breathe—
celebrate
the words
going upward to the sky and the
strawberry-red hair cascading down
it hungers
(like you)
to touch my back
gently
curl around my shoulders like your cold fingers in January
**** not
skeletal.
let there be
me.
let there be—here is where
the words stop mattering to me—
let there be caramelchocolate skin of sunlit honey tint
melting into itself on the wooden floor
(we all
scream
for ice cream)
titian and
anadyomene me
wringing long wet
raven hair
my legs are covered in salt
sand
once the sea goes dry.
almond eyes
upturned
(angular)
marvel at your own geometry.
lips of salome
drawn upward into a not-yet-smile
(cherubic)
to the women who give their thin
pale bodies
to muscular men with perfect
arms to hold them down:
i am for you.
i
with my
******* that blossom at your winter touch
my thighs
scarred by ivory teeth—no.
i
with
******* in full bloom
(orchids)
thighs sculpted by
God himself
don’t you want to make love to me?
doesn’t the world
want to make
love?
love that tastes
more metallic than the blood behind my lips
don’t you want to bite it out?
taste the sweetness behind them?
run your hands over
the elysian fields of my thighs
and the valley between them
don’t you want
my legs slung over your shoulders
don’t you want
your tongue
on my vast skin
sweat made of sugar
and salt.
(bittersweet)
you want
lips crashed against yours like
w
a ves
eyelashes sweeping your cheeks
you want
don’t you want
me
**** with nothing to cover me but my
blanket of raven hair
for immodesty’s sake!
perhaps
i am (is) small.
but
the mirrors are all broke}n here
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
She danced for Herod shamelessly;
She smiled and flashed her *******
Herod looked on, helpless not to,
as each veil dropped to join the rest.
The look of lust was in his eyes.
He wanted her in bed.
Salome wanted something else-
she wished the Baptist dead.
He was helpless to refuse her wish
so was the order given-
The Baptist's head upon a plate
as proof he'd left the living.
As she shared her trophy with her mom
I overheard what Salome said.
" You can say what you want about Herod,
but he always gives good head."
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
The moon last night
with clouds for veils
dancing like a gypsy maiden;
moving cross the waters deep,
Salome never looked so fine.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
As she danced before Herod and Herodias,
Salome waved her flowing veil,
Which fluttered and whirled through the air around her
And rippled like a silken sail.
"Ah, your daughter dances divinely,"
Said Herod to his calculating wife.
"She dances as though she's walking on air.
I've never seen so much grace in my life."
After a frenzied flurry and flash,
Salome stopped and bowed to the king.
"My dear," said Herod, "what may I give you?
Half of my kingdom? Anything!
"Tell me what your heart is set on.
I'll give you whatever you desire."
Salome looked at her mother, who
Smiled and nodded--her eyes on fire.
"Your incomparable kindness compels me
To answer simply to a king so great.
I ask for one thing only and that
Is John the Baptist's head on a plate."
Said; done. The executioner
Soon returned carrying John's head,
Which Salome gave to her bloodthirsty mother,
Who was delighted that he was dead.
What about those who keep on dancing
Salome's dance? They pivot and swirl,
Contemplating how to placate
The wishes of others while they twirl?
Do they conspire to perpetrate
Division and discord--not unity and peace?
Have love and kindness and thoughtfulness
Given way to heartless caprice?
Are they moved by seductive wiles
As if compassion does not matter?
Do they seek above all things
Vengeance on a silver platter?
- by Bob B
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
Six O’clock knocking on the shadow
of an older generation
He’s blind, imprisoned
after a lifetime of adventure
Screaming out loud
through his expression, motionless
Mr. Lovemore,
blind grey eyes capture me and leave me heartbroken
Fascinated by the walk of his past,
he’s a teacher , I’ll push him in a wheelchair
He can imagine I’m pushing him through Africa
Six O’clock, a listener
as I read out loud to him, old aged
- salome albrecht
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
No, I was torn naked and bleeding from the mouth of a death star
and woke to find mountains laid bare by the sea.
In the shallows of blood baths and craters, where the crushers of garlic and the harlots all meet
and the stiflers of dreams, dream on (right up my street)
that's where you'll find me.
In the 'Benbow' with pirates and pieces of eight and with cords tied to timepieces
(don't want to be late)
and the show starts at nine
when after drinking two bottles of cheap German wine
Salome appears with a head in her lap
we clap
because that's what we do.
(Lost innocents are few and we ain't none of all that)
But the ship sailed at four carrying whalebones to Spain
to tighten the corsets
for those Senoritas
who put me to such shame.
What's in a name that it's spat on the floor
by crimson clad virgins
who won't leave the doorways of bodegas
and Degas paints on.
A shanty
a song and the night carries me along on a wave of cheap scent
where oft' I have spent a weeks earnings on unsatisfied
yearnings.
In the end someone will send me a typewritten note or a telegram
to let me know just who and what I am
until then
in the 'Benbow' 'til ten and the crows crow at midnight when the lights all go out.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
burn me down
like Babylon
consume my flesh with fire
unquenchable
Desire
Raze me to the ground
scatter every brick
To the four winds
bury me
like Osiris
divided
divine sectioning
seconding
Sacralizing
phallicizing
Pour your living waters
down my throat
into my belly
and up from beneath
holify me
gushing, rushing
Living Water
sacral ******* water
energize me
Wholify me
receive me
willingly, this sacrifice
please me
please me
pacify me
resurrect me
Holify me
living waters never quench
Holy fire
Lavafy me
Molten living metals
running through every channel
veins, arteries, capillaries, nadis
Open me
i, the channel, emptied
eradicate me
Split me up the middle
reverse my topology
Outside like the Inside
precisely as the Inside
I receive you
Open me, Penetrate me
lava flowing up Inside me
like the infinite Outside
show me
the unbounded Abyss within
mirror still
Lake Placid
reflecting
Perfectly
not a ripple
but still vibrating
Energy
forever on fire
Lake Salome
the gushing wet birth
of the twenty-four-sided Jerusalem
forever on fire
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 8:08 PM UTC
Perhaps it was the blasphemy of lovers and fools
This dalliance of ravens and necromancy
The brush of pomegranate mouths
Amaranthine against the backdrop of ochre and tintype
I dance the silent rhythm
Innate the rush of blood in veins
Salome
I am your feathered death on prism wings
Small consolation you cannot see the soul beneath the veil
Spin a legacy of heretics starry eyed and hungry
For flesh and soft skin
Spills the stain on pristine canvas
The palette of indiscretions
Peep show intimacies
Vibrant I am unfettered light
And you are blind
In black and white and gray
You twist this myth
Ropes coiled serpentine
Hungry eyed you feed on dreams
Cellulose crackling in the heat
Borne on desert winds
I rise to claim you
I am the moment
Pigment and poetry
Alive and fluid in your mind
Inescapable
Whisper my name
Salome
031113
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
god is a woman
and she is angry.
her tongue is a serpent,
medusas mouth,
and her fists are vultures.
seven eyes,
seven horns,
seven doors.
the angels are women too
because only a woman
can weep so much.
someone unfurl her wings,
break the lock.
she is a dove and this
is her olive branch.
in the catholic church only men
can be priests.
but this church,
this gold and silver church,
was built from the bones
of sleek coated mares,
of birthing cows,
of cream skinned ladies in
veils and jewels and wine stains.
ask delilah of samson.
ask jezebel of ahab.
salome of john,
mary of joseph
and magdalene of jesus.
ask the moon of the sun.
ask god about her daughter,
the one still nailed to the cross,
still awaiting birth in bethlehem.
the carpenters daughter
with a wooden stake at her neck.
ask god about her other daughter,
the one in nazareth
still breathing desert air.
ask god about her sons,
sweet lazarus and wild lucifer,
stepping on hot coals
like summer asphalt.
ask god about the forget me nots
pressed to gravestones
in the heat of august.
ask god about the magnolias
wilted against gravestones
in the bite of december.
ask god about the lions,
the goats,
and the lambs.
ask about yourself,
if youd like.
god is a woman
and hell hath no fury
like a goddess scorned.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Before the opening of the sky where three men sat
asking questions why,
of where the King of men would sit among the shepherds who could pit their wits against the wolves and worriers of sheep.
Asleep and yet in sleep I woke before the Oldest Magi spoke and talked to me in parables, as if I understood the riddles,being middle aged and hard of hearing.
In the clearing by the burning bush as hushed crowds looked on,with fish and bread and baptist John, a Rasta man from Birmingham, stood Salome daring me to take off veils so I could see
her nakedness and blood that dripped black off her hands,
These Holy lands,
this righteous band,these writers of a history that we delivered to the three.a triumphant trilogy that we become before the opening of another sky,another sun that burned names deeply on a cross of wood
and beggars in the hallways full of Baptist John,who with no head or eyes,could not imagine what was going on
but ripped out messages from the scriptures to paint pictures that he'd never see,while Salome intercoursed with Roman scribes and perfumed men and if to be as if she could,
When her name was carved into the wood, as if another cross to bear would do more good and her screaming could be heard in prophecies by Galilee,as people gathered on street corners,to hear what they could never see and not believe,
and lepers grieved by river banks,their thanks and blessings washed away,their only ray of hope
hung out to dry
as three wise men sat and wondered why, the world moved on
Forgotten is The Baptist John,another prophet dead and gone and are we any better off for all of that?
I put a penny in the hat that's passed around to keep the upkeep of some distant consecrated piece of ground I'll never see
but hedging bets is what we do,
and make lamb stew
because we're all wolves with appetites to match.
I ****** another bleating sheep
and keep my thoughts
silently
stewing.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Tilt,
another guilt
and
one more rosary
will finish me.
I've done with Salome,
she's the dancer
who knows me
too well.
Skipping out on my bond,
let the bondsman come find me
he'll find only Salome,
dressed in her veils.
The church bell
rings solemnly
I pray that eternity
is quieter
than this,
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
with hands made of shrapnel,
i seal the door shut,
hide under the bed.
gunpowder perfume and gasoline showers,
when i was 13 i forced my way out.
i crawled back in,
driven by the sound of
cicadas dying.
theyre last will and testament sounding
too much like salome.
am i john?
summer is over,
the hush of fall falls down
like the last veil.
i am salome,
you are john.
head sitting heavy on a silver platter.
my body is jeweled,
the veils,
the color of violets,
flow, swirl, part.
i reveal myself to the king,
gold melting down his face
like saturated sacrilege.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
If neoliberalism has taught me anything
It’s that Love is a close, slow, and cold war
Of poisoned wells, proxy wars, and intel—
Know thy enemy, keep them closer than allies.
So close this necessary rivalry
That no olive branch can pass between
That, even in times of peace,
The light-bearing serpents
Post guard near the vaults of one’s purity
Unsure whether grain or gold
Actually lines the walls of ones coffers,
And the thousand envious myrmidons
Kept along the edges of their body’s territory
And skirt the embassy within.
Is there room in the hearth
For pacifists like me?
Or are all the rooms quartered by troops?
It’s sad to say, only the words of the cynic
Could truck and barter
Their way through the bronze gates,
What small inlets there may be,
As master seeking the slave
And slave, the master’s whips
Is a true sign of loyalty to Monogamy’s crown.
What Love couldn’t be said to be
The sadomasochism of
The corporate merger,
Or annexation
Or competitive market of ideas?
*** in the time of Smith or Hobbes,
Is exactly what we need—
Egoism allwheres,
Like so much embroidery
The love of ones life
Veils ********** a swallowing, a utility
And undoes the altruism,
Anything but all-true-ism,
In favor of the fetishism of control,
Flashed like semaphores in storm-beaten nights
To any ship passing
Seeking port and safe passage,
Exchange fire, those shapes and pleas,
Turned warnings to threats,
Sinking, sinking deeper
Into each other’s arms.
In all their plotting, do they hear
Andres-Salome, Ree, and Nietzsche
Laughing about in unburdened skin
Laughing to let the summer in,
On cart-drawn pleasures
And rustic, old-world habits
That rub dirt in the wound
Of the flesh’s censures
By the cruel absence of the lash
And the ostracon.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The High Priest Kisses King Herod’s (Hands)
His Eminence the Cardinal of New York
The High Priest kisses King Herod’s (hands)
And joins him for a feast of mockeries and lies
Giving the tyrant for his crimes a pass
Laughing at Truth as civilization dies
Over lobster and beef they pity the poor
While robed in white ties and evening gowns
And silken ecclesiastical couture
(One of them has visions of papal crowns)
Gluttony and scorn at a rented manse -
All that is missing is Salome’s dance
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC